


Management Sucks

by lightfighter



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, eve is a great baby assassin and villanelle is totally fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26086804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightfighter/pseuds/lightfighter
Summary: Villanelle is less than amused when she’s informed that she’ll be mentoring a newly hired assassin for the Twelve on her next job. She works best alone, after all, and who wants to waste their valuable time hand-holding some pathetic newbie?Or so she thinks — until she meets her new mentee.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 214





	Management Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly ripped from the s3 episode from which this oneshot is mostly inspired.

“There is a new job for you.”

There was no response. 

“Villanelle.”

The woman in question continued to ignore him, focusing the entirety of her attention on her nails, and the nailpolish she was in the process of painting onto them. 

Konstantin blew out an annoyed breath, waiting until she made to dip the brush back into the bottle of nailpolish and grabbing it off the vanity she sat at before she could. 

Only then did Villanelle raise her head to regard him, irritation of her own sparking in her hazel eyes. “I am very busy, Konstantin. Is there a reason you are always here?”

“As I’ve been trying to tell you, there is a job for you.”

“And _I_ am not interested. I already told you, I want more responsibility, more decision-making. I want to be a keeper.”

Kostantin squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Villanelle, I do not think you are understanding. Being a keeper is not so easy. You are turning it into something it is not. I promise you, you will be happier where you are now.”

“That is for me to decide.” She eyed him coolly. “I think what you are not saying is it would also be much easier for _you_ if I stay where I am now, hmm?”

He clapped a hand to his heart, looking comically wounded. “Villanelle! You would not say that if you knew how much I cover for you, go out of my way for you. I am trying to _help_ you.”

She was unmoved. “If you are trying to help me, then actually do it. I want to be a keeper.”

Konstantin didn’t reply immediately, eyeing her for a long moment before sighing abruptly. “Well, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It seems you’ve managed to convince someone above us both.”

For the first time a glint of interest entered Villanelle’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Consider this an...interview, of sorts. A test of your management abilities.”

“And that means…”

“There is a job for you.” He held up a forestalling hand at her protest. “Not a target. You will be mentoring a new hire. Guiding them through your process, from assignment to execution. If they are able to successfully terminate the target, with you overseeing, it will look very good for you. Fastrack your promotion, even.”

This hopeful speech was met with a long silence as she looked at him flatly.

Finally: “Are you telling me they want me to... _baby-sit?_ ”

“Not baby-sit! Teach! Guide! Manage!” He crossed his arms impatiently. “All things you will need to show you can do, you know. If you _really_ want to be a keeper.”

“I know what you are doing, Konstantin.”

“I am just passing this message along! Show them you can work for the team, Villanelle. That you can be responsible.”

“Gross.” She pouted, looking deeply vexed. He waited, counting in his head. One, two, three…

“Fine. _Fine_. If this is what I must do to be made keeper, coach some drooling child into successfully killing someone, then _fine_.”

He smiled as he withdrew a postcard from inside his jacket and handed it over. “You should not make so many assumptions, you know. Bad practice for an assassin.”

Villanelle scowled, grabbing the card and tossing it onto the vanity. “The only thing I _should_ be doing is finishing my nails. Give me my nailpolish and get out.”

Konstantin did so serenely, chuckling as he closed the door to her flat behind him. This was all going to go completely tits up, of course, but he had a feeling it would be amusing in the interim, and he did so enjoy to laugh.

**

Villanelle strode into the Paris cafe where she was to meet her apprentice, dressed to kill. 

(This was a little joke she liked to make to herself ever since learning this delightful English turn of phrase. She was an assassin! By definition, anything she wore made her dressed to kill!

But also, she looked devastating.)

Today she wore a delightfully patterned Dries Van Noten suit, because she looked amazing in it and because she wanted to make an impression on whatever infant she had been assigned. 

She was kind of a big deal in this industry, and she would make sure the fetus knew it. Understood just how lucky it was to have _her_ as its guide. 

And just how bad it would be to embarrass her. 

She approached the appointed table, tucked in the corner with a good view of the entire dining area, and slowed. 

Sitting there was...a woman. That was about all Villanelle could make out. She was holding a menu in front of her, obstructing her face. She had nice hands, though. There was a wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand. 

Villanelle frowned. “Eve?”

The menu lowered, and Villanelle fought to keep her composure.

This was no drooling infant. Not even a child. Before her sat a woman, an absolutely _gorgeous_ woman, with...with this amazing hair. A true mane of thick black curls. Villanelle wanted to touch it.

She cleared her throat. “You _are_ Eve, yes?”

The woman blinked at her, once, twice. She seemed surprised, Villanelle supposed. She didn’t typically notice or care about other people’s emotions, but everything about this woman had grabbed her attention. “Uh, yes. _You’re_ the, uh, the…”

Villanelle was going to kill Konstantin. The balding bastard had kept the details of her student to himself, probably chortling idiotically all the while. “I’m your mentor, yes.”

“Oh, okay. Um, you’re…”

Villanelle raised her brows, forcing herself to exude the suave confidence that usually came naturally. “Yes?”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

Villanelle pulled out the chair opposite, dropping into it elegantly. “Oh, Eve. Never judge a book by its cover. Even when it’s an amazing cover.” She smiled. “Rest assured, I am _very_ good at my job.”

She crossed her legs, still studying Eve. “And what about you, hmm? No offense, but aren’t you a little... _old_ to be switching careers? This can be a demanding job, you know.”

Eve drew back. “I have my reasons. And I’m up to the task.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I think you look great. But a teacher must prepare her student and all that. Make sure she can do what is needed.”

“I’ll be fine.” Eve looked at her challengingly. “ _You’re_ going to be guiding me through this job, aren’t you? If you’re as good as you say, I shouldn’t have any problems.”

Villanelle couldn’t help but laugh. Eve had some fire in her! Normally this wouldn’t be something she’d tolerate, but she found that she liked it, very much so. “Yes, I will be coaching you through this job.” She abandoned the amusement that had fallen over her without conscious effort — emotions, such as they were, slipped through her as quickly as they came. She felt her face go flat. “And I don’t tolerate failure, Eve. Neither do our employers.” She smiled again. “So don’t embarrass me. Okay?”

Eve looked shaken for the first time, and Villanelle felt a flash of satisfaction. Good. Attractive or not, she had an image to maintain. “Yes. I didn’t come all this way to fail here.”

And what did _that_ mean, Villanelle idly mused. “Have you even killed anyone before?”

The question, which Villanelle imagined had to be fairly standard for would-be assassins, seemed to land heavily on Eve’s shoulders. The woman stiffened, and sat silently for a long moment before saying woodenly, “Yes. I have.” She met Villanelle’s eyes. “And I can do it again.”

This time there was no denying the frisson of pure attraction that ran through Villanelle. God. “I guess we’ll see about that, very soon.”

She sat back, pulled the same postcard Konstantin had handed her from inside her coat, watching with satisfaction the way Eve followed the motion with her eyes. Tossed it onto the table. “Our target.” 

Eve read the name scribbled onto the card. “Jean-Claude Bisset.” She looked up. “That’s it?”

“Did you need something else?”

“Well, why is he being targeted? What did he do?”

Villanelle shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

She smirked at Eve’s expression. “We are not paid to know the why, Eve. Only to carry out the hit.”

Eve gazed at her, eyebrows furrowed. “And you’re...okay with that?”

Villanelle paused.

Not too long ago, she would’ve been able to answer that with a categorical “yes.” Why wouldn’t she be okay with it? She liked her job, liked seeing the souls of dying people sink inside of them, liked getting paid egregious amounts of money to spend on whatever she wanted. Got to travel, pick up gorgeous women, stay in luxurious hotels. It was an ideal situation. 

But then she had to kill a Russian woman three months ago — a woman with eerie resemblance to her mercifully dead bitch of a mother, who had cursed and spat at her in Russian even as she died — and the dreams had started. 

She didn’t dream, as a rule. Maybe it was because she was “different,” whatever that meant. Maybe because she had nothing weighing on her conscience, as apparently “normal” people did. But ever since she had killed that Russian woman, she woke up once or twice a week soaked in sweat, throat hoarse from whatever she had been shouting in her mother tongue. 

And she _hated_ speaking Russian. 

She did not know how to control it, how to make it stop. Would never remotely dream of telling Konstantin, or, god forbid, the company therapist, could never cede that insight into herself and whatever power it carried. 

But she loathed it. Loathed how she was helpless to stop it, how utterly powerless it made her feel. Had even considered the rat poison of drugs that boring normal people used to make themselves feel something, if only to make it stop. 

So she focused her attention on something she _could_ control. Her work. She had been content for so long with just carrying out the Twelve’s hits, didn’t need anything else. But it no longer gave her the same satisfaction. She needed something more. Needed to be a part of the decision-making process.

Not because she actually cared about the Twelve’s motives or long-term goals, of course. Government destabilization, the spread of chaos and fear, a global push towards entropy, who cared? It was too boring for words. No, she just wanted the power.

Maybe then the dreams would stop.

All this to say, she still didn’t really care why the Twelve killed who they did. But she was no longer content with just being their hired gun. 

But none of this was meant for Eve’s ears, of course. “Of course I am,” she replied airily. “But I will be rising up the ranks very soon. They are going to make me a keeper.”

Eve’s eyebrows shot up. “They are?”

Villanelle smiled, pleased. Good, she wanted Eve impressed. “Why would they not? I am an excellent asset, you know. They are pleased with my work.”

“Um, sure, but, uh...aren’t keepers super rare? I thought there were hardly any of them. I didn’t know they were...hiring.” Eve paused, then added hastily, “Or so I’ve been told.” 

Villanelle’s smile vanished. Eve may be gorgeous, but that only went so far. “And what do you know about it? You are _my_ trainee, are you not?”

Eve eyed her, her stare unreadable. Not that Villanelle cared to read it. “Uh, yeah, yeah. You’re right, you probably know a lot more about it than I do.”

“I do,” Villanelle agreed smoothly. She rose, and began to walk away, only pausing when she failed to hear Eve follow. She turned her head. “Are you coming? We have a lot of work to do, trainee.”

She thought she heard Eve mutter something, and smiled. This was going to be _fun_.

**

Or it would be fun, if Eve didn’t have so much damn commentary.

“So you really just...sit here?”

“Yes.”

“In this car?”

“Yes.”

“For hours. Doing nothing.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Don’t you get bor—”

“Eve. This is a stakeout. We are trying to determine the target’s regular movements so that we’ll know the best time to make our move. This is part of the process.” 

“I just thought being an assassin would be more...active.”

Villanelle couldn’t help but smile at the slight plaintiveness in Eve’s voice, then quickly forced it off her face. She meant to be stern right now, damn it. No matter how unwillingly cute she was finding Eve. She was a professional! She was a _mentor!_ “It is. But you can only act when you know what to expect. And the only way to know what to expect is by doing the work. I often take a few days to just observe the target before making any moves at all.” 

She glanced away from where she was staring out the windshield to look at Eve. “I don’t know why you look so surprised, Eve. I am the best for a reason.”

Eve’s expression quickly cleared. “I’m beginning to realize that. It’s just, uh…”

“What?”

“You’re not what I expected, I guess.”

Villanelle smirked. “I am rarely what people expect, Eve. I am much better.”

Eve snorted. “At least you’re not lacking in the self-confidence area.”

“I am not lacking anywhere.”

Eve just rolled her eyes. 

After a pause, Villanelle said, “You are not what I expected, either.”

“I get it,” Eve said, her voice dry. “I’m old.”

“No you’re not!” Villanelle protested, then amended, “Okay, well, perhaps you’re not the age I’d expect a new hire to be, but you are not _old_. And I think it is, um...nice.”

She immediately cursed herself for this incredibly un-suave sentiment. After a moment, Eve replied, amusement apparent, “Um, thanks. I think.”

“Yes, well, you don’t need to be twenty to pull a trigger, after all,” Villanelle said, desperate to gloss over the sudden break in her effortless cool. “You just need the ability to actually pull it, when it counts.”

There was a silence. Then Eve said, her voice a bit strained, “Right. When it counts.”

Villanelle glanced at her before returning her gaze out the windshield. The ugly, squat office building in front of them continued to be as still and quiet as it had been for the last three hours. Their mark — an accountant who managed the Twelve’s finances and, she presumed, had begun sharing them with the wrong people; she did do _some_ research into her targets despite what she’d told Eve — certainly kept late hours. 

She blew out a breath and finally gave voice to the question that had been bothering her for the last day. “Why _are_ you doing this, Eve? I can usually look at someone and know that they are in my line of work, and for you...I can’t.”

Eve was quiet, and for a moment Villanelle thought she wouldn't reply. But then she answered, her voice quiet. “I was married.”

Okay, that was a mood-killer, but Villanelle managed to keep her thoughts to herself because Eve was already continuing. “I got involved in some matters I shouldn't've. My husband paid the price.”

Villanelle waited. When there seemed to be nothing more forthcoming, she said, “So he is...dead?” (She thought she managed to keep the hope out of her voice. She’d learned that women didn’t like it when you expressed hope that their husbands were no longer in their lives.)

Eve chuckled, a humorless noise. “No. But he was very badly injured. Permanently so. He survived, but the marriage didn’t.”

“I see.”

“But I learned a lot from it. Learned I can kill, when it comes down to it.” Her voice gained a steely edge. “Learned that there’s so much I don’t know, about who really runs the world. I’m sick of being powerless. So here I am.”

A chill ran down Villanelle’s back. _I’m sick of being powerless_. “I know the feeling.” She cleared her throat. “So...who did you kill?”

Eve stared out the windshield blankly. “The man who was about to finish what he’d started with Niko. It was in the kitchen. Niko had been cooking. There were knives out.”

She stopped talking, but Villanelle could fill in the blanks. She kept her gaze trained forward. She still didn’t know much about what people did or didn’t like, cared even less, but she got the feeling Eve wouldn’t be appreciative were she to see how excited her words had made Villanelle. 

They dropped into silence once more. Villanelle had just barely gotten a grip on her racing imagination and the heat gathering in her core when Eve said, her voice still quiet, “Why are _you_ doing this?”

The question caught Villanelle off-guard. People — okay, targets — asked her that all the time, usually right before she killed them and between boring, tearful offers of cash or children. (Why did they always tell her they had children? She didn’t want their ugly children.) But she’d never been asked it like this. 

It made her uneasy. Made her wonder what Eve saw when she looked at her. She didn’t like it. So she said, voice flippant, “Because I am very good at killing, Eve. I have been trained to be very good at it.” She laughed, the sound stilted to her own ear. “And there was nothing else I could see myself doing, not from where I came from.” 

This sentiment was too close to the truth, so she added, “And I like it quite a lot.” She cast a sideways look at the woman sitting next to her. “As you will see for yourself very soon, I think.”

Eve didn’t reply immediately, and Villanelle found that she, usually never short of words, didn’t know what next to say.

Finally, Eve spoke. “Do you really think they’ll make you a keeper, Villanelle?”

Villanelle stiffened. This, again? “This seems to be quite the worry for you, Eve.”

Eve looked at her, and Villanelle was taken aback at the seriousness in her gaze. “You said it yourself. You’re very good at killing. They’re getting everything they need out of you just as you are now. They have no motivation to put you anywhere else. And I think you know that.”

Villanelle felt pain in her hands, and looked down to see them on the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The bad, muffling rage was beginning to sink down over her, the one that made her lose time and come back to herself with blood up to her elbows and in her teeth and no thoughts at all in her head. Just that nothingness that took everything else with it.

She grit her teeth and closed her eyes, forcing herself to count. It would not do to kill the mentee. Then she would definitely not get her promotion. 

And she _would_ get it. There was no world in which she did not get made a keeper. It was an impossibility. Eve knew nothing, was nothing. 

When she had pushed the feeling back down inside her, she opened her eyes. Became aware of Eve’s stare on her, now worried. Good. She should be worried. She had no idea how near death she had just been. “Do not worry about me, Eve. Worry about yourself. The Twelve have no place for an assassin who cannot execute.”

Eve, looking troubled, opened her mouth to reply, but Villanelle held up a hand as the entrance to the office building opened, and their mark left for the day, looking harried. They watched as he got into his car and drove off into the night.

Villanelle opened her car door. “Let’s go.”

“Are we not going to follow him?”

Villanelle didn’t bother to look back. “No. We just needed to confirm his schedule for coming and going. Now we are going to case the joint, as they say. Learn the layout of the building. You will be killing him at work.”

“But—”

This time, Villanelle did look back at her. Whatever was in her expression was evidently enough to shut Eve up mid-sentence. “Don’t mistake my patience for leniency, Eve. This is not up for discussion. We are going inside.”

Eve swallowed, and got out of the car.

**

Things were a bit awkward after that. 

Villanelle didn’t feel guilty — the thought never occurred to her to be — but she did miss the certain playful quality in their interactions before that unfortunate exchange. The certain air of possibility that floated between them. 

It was all Eve’s fault, anyway. She should’ve just kept her thoughts to herself. 

But it didn’t matter. Villanelle was going to complete this job no matter what, and then she would be made keeper and the dreams would stop and she’d once more feel fine. And Eve could go wherever, do whatever. She was just a temporary presence in Villanelle’s life, to be managed and tolerated. 

Eve didn’t seem to get the memo. 

She continued to flit apologetic glances at Villanelle throughout their survey of the building, through Villanelle’s painstaking mapping out of their timed path to Jean-Claude Bisset’s office, and well into her acquisition of custodial uniforms, access badges, and silenced pistols. 

Never saying anything, oh no. Just glancing. 

It was _very annoying_.

(Even if a small part, a _very_ small part, of Villanelle enjoyed the attention. Eve had wronged her. She _should_ feel bad. And it was a good sign that it continued to eat at her the longer Villanelle maintained her injured silence.

And maybe it wasn’t so bad that Eve was clearly worried about her, even if she had no idea what she was talking about. Villanelle couldn’t fairly hold that against her, could she?)

Either way, this continued all the way to the night of the termination. They had just finished changing into their (hideous) uniforms outside the office building, something Villanelle would usually forego entirely but had opted for out of an abundance of caution with Eve, when finally her patience snapped.

“What?”

Eve immediately assumed a patently fake air of nonchalance, as if she had not just been glancing all doe-eyed at Villanelle when she thought the other woman wasn’t looking. “What, what?”

“You are _staring_ at me. Very annoyingly. Like you’ve been for the last two days. So, again, _what?_ ”

Eve, to her credit, dropped the act. “Um. Well.”

Villanelle raised her brows.

Eve sighed, looking caught between frustration, embarrassment, and the faintest tinge of, could it be? Ah, yes. _Guilt_. 

Bingo. 

“I shouldn’t have questioned your promotion. You’re clearly very capable and good at what you do, beyond the killing. So, um, sorry.”

Villanelle didn’t reply for a moment, busying herself with lifting the back of her shirt to stuff the pistol into her waistband, against the small of her back. Taking the moment to indulge in internal preening and absolutely smug exultation. 

Eve admitted she was wrong, that Villanelle was amazing at what she did and what she could do, and beyond all that had tacitly admitted that she’d been thinking of this nonstop for two whole days. Of _Villanelle_. 

It was absolutely perfect.

And she was nothing if not magnanimous in victory, so she turned to Eve, smiling sweetly. “It is no problem, Eve. You were just worried for me. I can appreciate that.”

Eve nodded, looking anxious. “Yeah, well, it’s just that—”

Oh, for god’s sake. “What.”

“I do think you shouldn’t underestimate the Twelve.” A shadow fell over Eve’s face. “They’re capable of anything.”

Villanelle walked up to Eve. Watched Eve stiffen, felt the tension crackling between them. Leaned in and said, very quietly, “So am I.”

She felt Eve stop breathing for a moment.

And then she stepped back and handed her the other pistol. “Let’s go finish this, Eve.”

**

As expected, the plan went off without a hitch. Villanelle was very good at her job, and her careful planning paid off neatly; they waited until well after the workday was over, and the parking lot had nearly emptied, save for a car here and there, including the target’s sleek Audi, and then entered the building through the service entrance, their stolen badges granting them easy access. 

Villanelle knew that no one looked twice at cleaning services, but took no chances; they stuck to the route she had planned out, that avoided CCTVs whenever possible and kept away from most foot traffic, and walked at a calm pace, pushing a cleaning cart (well, Eve was pushing it, Villanelle was directing). 

There was a tense moment, when they heard a security guard around the corner, talking into a walkie-talkie. Eve glanced at her worriedly, and Villanelle didn’t hesitate, grabbing her by the hand and steering her into a nearby broom closet, closing the door firmly behind them. 

The closet was a tight fit, and dark save for the faint light from the hall. A mop stabbed uncomfortably into her back. The whole place stank of pungent cleaning solutions. Her nose stung.

But overshadowing all that was the way Eve was pressed deliciously into her, her back against the door. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide, her chest pressing into Villanelle with each exhalation. 

They stared at each other as the guard made his way down the hall, his clomping footsteps and crackling walkie-talkie giving away his position. 

Eve stopped breathing as he passed by their closet, looking down at the sliver of light under the door. Villanelle brought her hands up to Eve’s hips without thinking, placing them there in an attempt to comfort or at least distract her. From the way Eve’s eyes flew up to meet hers, though, Villanelle couldn’t help but think that maybe she’d had the opposite effect.

It seemed like it took hours, but really had been no more than a minute, for him to walk down the hall, past their closet and around the opposite corner, his footsteps fading. 

Villanelle was no longer worried about him, though. She was far more interested in the feel of Eve under her hands, and from the growing heat in Eve’s gaze, the way her eyes kept dipping down to Villanelle’s lips, she didn’t think she was alone in the sentiment. 

They were already so close. It would hardly take any movement at all. 

Villanelle leaned forwards. She could feel Eve’s breath on her lips. 

And then, just before their lips met, Eve spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “I think he’s gone.”

Villanelle stopped. Forced herself to focus back in. “Yes.”

They stayed that way for another frozen moment before Eve was reaching behind herself and found the doorknob, letting herself out. 

Villanelle stood there for a moment, staring after her and blinking in the sudden light. 

The job. Focus on the job.

Think about other things after.

They made their way to Bisset’s floor, abandoning the cleaning cart. Everyone else in his hallway had left for the day, light shining under his closed door alone. 

“Are you ready, Eve?”

The woman just nodded, tension rising off her, and Villanelle frowned. She thought she preferred the chatty version of her. 

But no matter. The true test was moments away.

The grand entrance was as fun as ever. Bisset sat at his desk, blissfully unaware of his impending death. The usual followed: the initial confusion, the dawning awareness, and then horror, the raised hands and widening eyes and desperate searching for an escape or rescue. 

There was none coming, of course.

“Time to show me what you’re made of, Eve.” Villanelle reached behind herself, gripping her gun just in case. 

Eve hesitated for a split second, then something dark entered her face and she raised the silenced pistol. Bisset had barely a second to cry out, and then — a muted shot rang out and he slumped in his seat, blood soaking into his elegant dress shirt.

Villanelle stared at him for a moment, before letting out a breath and letting go of her gun. She walked up to him, inspecting the late Jean-Claude Bisset lazily. “Yup, he’s dead.” 

There was a quick sound of steps, then, and she turned to see Eve standing over her, gripping her pistol by the muzzle. Villanelle could only catch a glimpse of the fear and anger and determination and...regret in Eve’s face before the woman brought it down on Villanelle’s temple with all her strength. 

And then there was darkness. 

**

Villanelle began to come back to herself at the feeling of movement. Her head ached and she was dizzy as hell, but she forced her eyes open as Eve slowly dragged her to the desk and sat her up to lean against it.

She felt something warm and thick slowly running down her face, her head spinning sickly. “That was...not very...nice, Eve.” She felt a pang in her chest, unrelated entirely to the pain in her head. “I really liked you.”

Eve crouched and looked at her, her eyes deep and clear as she smoothed Villanelle’s hair, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. Her hand came away red. “Leave the Twelve, Oksana. They’ll never give you what you want.”

Villanelle struggled to focus. “And what...is that?”

Eve smiled. “Power.”

“And...you can?” Villanelle was proud that the depth of her skepticism carried through. 

“No. But I can give you freedom.” Eve leaned in even closer. “My name is Eve Polastri. I work for a team that is going to bring down the Twelve. Come find me, when you can.”

“I’m going...to kill you.”

“Maybe.” Eve stood. For the first time Villanelle noticed the bulging briefcase in her hand, files and what looked like an external harddrive sticking out of the top, presumably the contents of their mark’s desk, and realized that this little turn of events likely went much deeper than she could fathom at the current moment. “But not now.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Villanelle’s eyes drooping as the dizziness rose again, but she kept them determinedly open. She wanted to see Eve.

“That injury won’t kill you. This is your chance to disappear. The police will be here soon, if not the cleaners.” 

Message apparently delivered, Eve turned and headed for the door. Just before she left, she paused. Turned her head. “Leave them. Find me.”

And with that, she was gone. 

Villanelle stared after her, her vision swimming. 

Tricky, tricky Eve. So many surprises. Forget the Twelve; it seemed she had underestimated _her_.

It had been so long since she felt anything like this. Forced to experience the unexpected. Only Eve had done this to her.

She found that she kind of liked it. 

Villanelle would find Eve. Of this there was no doubt.

And then, she would kill her. 

But maybe, she thought as her eyes slid shut, memories stirring of an almost-there moment in a closet, it wouldn't be the first thing she would do.

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder that Villanelle was (allegedly) actually a very good and competent assassin before Eve came in like a wrecking ball and made her completely lose her chill forever!!
> 
> Thanks for reading. In what is no doubt a terrible life choice, I've joined twitter, @lightfighterfic. Come through!


End file.
